Expectations
by Kokoro E. Junnaya
Summary: There is too much expectation. In the hot doctor's hurt green eyes, in the blond boy's, even in the weird talking chimp's – his eyes finally settle on the ninja guy because his eyes are shielded by sunglasses, and nothing shows through his mask of cool indifference, especially not fear, or worry, or expectation. "Okay." He says finally. Or, Rex has amnesia again.
1. Faint Hopes

There is too much expectation.

In the hot doctor's hurt green eyes, in the blond boy's, even in the weird talking chimp's – his eyes finally settle on the ninja guy because his eyes are shielded by sunglasses, and nothing shows through his mask of cool indifference, especially not fear, or worry, or hatred, or expectation.

"Okay. Okay." He says finally, not because he really believes them or trusts them so much as he just wants them to leave him alone. The man in the green suit stares back at him, and for a second he fears that the ninja can see straight to his soul. But it's not as though his lie is stellar, or anything. He calms down.

Even down right ignoring them, the stares still get to him, unnerve him. He pushes off of the table and takes a few steps away. Breathe, he tells himself. It's okay.

"Can I just... just have a moment?" He asks. He's afraid they'll say no – he's more frightened of what he'll do in response. Cry? Scream? Fight? Run? And yet they don't deny him.

The man in green nods, a small nod, and the doctor smiles like she isn't clearly breaking inside.

It's funny how different they are – how completely opposite. He wonders if he could ever read the ninja as well as he can read the Doc. Would he have noticed something? A tightness around the mouth, a furrow not normally found in his brow, a gruffness in his voice? He isn't sure. Perhaps the ninja just doesn't care.

"O-Of course, Rex." Is what the doctor says. All he knows about her is that she is very pretty and very emotional. Turning away from her is a mix of relief and guilt, but at least he can't see her eyes anymore. They pierce him worse than any knife.

He takes a few more steps away, then a few more, until he's finally resting his head on the cool glass that overlooks something they call the 'Petting Zoo'. As far as he can tell, they are either insane or have a quirky sense of humor. Maybe he would appreciate that now if he wasn't so overwhelmed. Even through everything, the name made him smile the first time he'd heard it. It was a hysterical smile, but still. He hasn't smiled since.

Two days.

Two days of running around, learning things 'again', and pretending like it somehow made some sort of sense. Now the insanity of it all is catching up, and it steals his breath like a punch to the gut. He's alone in the worst way possible – he's alone with other people.

It's funny, he thinks, that it happening now, after meeting grumpy white people – like completely white, down to the hair and everything – seeing monsters called EVO's and learning anyone can turn into one, realizing he has the sixth most dangerous person on the planet as his nanny, and being told he is the last hope for the world. Now, after sitting on the doc's medical table and after being asked questions, he falls apart.

Simple questions, too. She is trying to jog his memory, but he can't help but feel an increasing amount of fear and loneliness as the questions receive no answers.

He is a name. Nothing more.

Rex. Rex. Rex.

He whispers it over and over to himself, finding comfort in the one thing he knows to be true. The whole building of scientists and soldiers and people could be lying to him, straight to his face, he has no idea – yet he's certain he knew his name before they even told it to him. It was solely, completely his.

Rex. Rex. Rex.

It's not that he doesn't want to trust the silent ninja, or the talking ape, or the attractive scientist/doctor lady, because something tells him that they are good people, and every fiber that is in him wants to believe that about them. Only...he doesn't know them, not really. He'll have to wait and rely on them a little more day by day.

For a moment he considers telling them everything he is feeling, down to the hope that they turn out to be his loving, dysfunctional (actual) family. Would they laugh? He glances back at them out of the corner of his eye. No, he decides, they wouldn't laugh. Somehow he's too weary to do anything other than close his eyes and blow out a large, conflicted sigh, wishing life was simple. He wishes the doctor would come over and wrap him in a hug, as she did when he first woke up, or the ninja would smile slightly and put a large hand on his shoulder, or his friend – the blond boy, Abraham or Noah or something – would punch him lightly, affectionately, on the arm and smile at him. So that in his second of overwhelming weakness, he could whisper to someone, "I'm scared." And have them not mock him for it.

But he's asked for space.

Odd how that works, isn't it? It takes more strength than he thought he possessed, and yet, finally, he pulls away from his thoughts, fears, and pushes away from the window with a shuddering breath, facing their stares once more. The smile he paints on his face doesn't seem to fool any of them. He smiles anyway. And as he steps towards the doctor again, suddenly he's hit with a powerful wave of some emotion...a feeling. Of warmth, home, and maybe even love. Of burnt cake and tight hugs and worrisome yelling. Nothing really substantial – only the outline of a giant picture he may never fully understand. Still. The smile grows slowly into a grin.

Her alarmed look is worth it, and he is so excited that he isn't a name anymore that he blurts it out. "We...we were close, right?"

He tilts his head to the side. "I just...I got the feeling.." Is it déjà vu if it's not-quite memories? "We were close." He finishes, uncertainly. And now her smile is more genuine, and she nods sadly yet contentedly, like she's just glimpsed something she assumed was lot forever, and was now proved certain it was.

"Yeah, we...are Rex." Her voice catches on the verb tense. He doesn't blame her, honestly. Can't. Quickly, with strength that surprises Rex, the doctor – Holiday, he keeps reminding himself – shoves away any trace of tears, turns, flipping her coat around, and pat the med table.

"Come on, Rex. I still have a few tests to run." Now her tone is impeccably soft. And filled with steel.

He decides that he likes her, and whatever happens, he trusts her, too. The strong, breath-stealing feeling is enough proof to him because, quite honestly, it's more than he had before. He wonders if his new decision is apparent in his face as he sits on the table under the watchful eyes of...Six, is it? The tests run long and frustrating, the only thing really keeping him from running away from it all being the doc...Holiday. He calls her 'Doctor Holiday', which is different from his previous anonymous 'Doctor', and yet he sees her stiffen every time he says it. Surely he didn't call her by her first name? Which, as she's fully admitted to him, since he's been jealous of her possessing two names, is Rebecca.

It tastes foreign on his tongue, raw and weird, so he sticks to 'Doctor Holiday'. Maybe he should shorten it to 'Holiday'?

"So, what do I do for fun around here?" He questions casually, placing his palm on the table and leaning against it.

For the first time since ever, the green ninja smiles.

It's a historic, enough to leave him wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to be able to shut up. Maybe he lost that ability along with his memories. Most likely he has never had it.

Regardless, he blurts out (in that stupid way of his), "Hey! You're not a robot!"

The tiny, almost unnoticeable curve of his lips twitch, if possibly going even higher. The theory isn't completely disproved though, and, taking advantage of his new-found dependable partner, he whispers to the doc, "He's not a robot, is he?"

She laughs, giving the agent a look, shaking her head.

"No, Rex. Six isn't a robot."

"...not that you know of." His retort is so quiet Rex nearly misses it, although Holiday hears it perfectly and grins at him in a much different way that she smiled at Rex.

A realization dawns. It hits hard.

"Oh." It all he has to say; because they are together. Together together. He didn't expect that. Still reeling, he points from one to the other.

"You two are...I didn't think..." But he shakes his head as they shoot him puzzled glances. "Never mind."

"..."

"The question still stands." He comments, uncomfortable with silences he doesn't understand. The two adults, whom Rex is beginning to think of as his 'parents' in the loosest sense of the word, give each other meaningful glances that, as far as he can tell, must include telepathy.

Holiday speaks first. "You...hang out with Noah..."

He cringes at her use of the phrase, since she was older than him and therefore inexplicably old and had no right to use it.

"Play baskett ball...? Break out of the Petting Zoo, mostly...and...um.."

The woman flails around for a bit more, stammering over things he supposes are typical teenage activities (maybe in the eighties), and finally decides to spare her, since she is so obviously out of step with the teenagers.

Despite knowing that they are together, he shoots her a wink and what he thinks is a cute grin, shaking her head at her. This is why they're friends, he thinks; she's hot and amusing and fun to mess with.

Of course, he's just all around awesome.

"You must be getting old, Doc." He teases her, the nickname slipping unconsciously from his lips.

It's that moment that his stomach chooses to growl really loudly, and he hops off the table again to stride towards the door. He completely misses her wide-eyed look at Six, as he yells back over his shoulder, "I'm starving! Where do you get something to eat around here?"


	2. Pie and Other Easy Things

_This is easy_, he thinks as he leans back in the swivel chair. Noah lays on the bed next to him, attempting (and succeeding) to spin a basketball on his finger.

The first moment was the hardest – introducing himself to his best friend. Well, that's what they tell him, anyway, that this guy is his 'pal', or whatever.

It went something like,_ Hi, I'm Rex – well, I guess you know that already – but I had a memory thing, and I kinda forgot you. Sorry. Hey, can we order pizza?_

Noah, to his credit, blinked for a few minutes, stared, and then let him in. Rex can see even now the news did affect the blond boy. A small frown has stuck on his mouth since he walked in the door. An hour later, talking, joking, and gorging on pizza like they're best friends (okay, they really _are_), and the frown never really goes away.

Still, this is so _easy_.

Rex tips another slice of pizza into his mouth, leaning back further.

"I can't believe you don't get Geometry, dude. It's so easy."

He can see Noah roll his eyes and by the expression on his face it occurs to him – he has probably said this before.

"Okay, no. Algebra was fine. _Geometry_ is –"

"– Something I get, and I've never even studied! How hard can it be?"

Swallowing the crust of his (thirteenth?) slice of pizza, Rex pauses. He suddenly glances worryingly to his friend.

"I haven't studied it, have I?" He asks, just making sure.

The frown on Noah's face deepens slightly. Despite his apathetic hand wave, the frown doesn't go away. It never goes away.

"Nah. I mean, not that I know."

Straightening until the swivel chair rights itself and his feet rest on the floor, Rex pats his stomach contentedly. Pizza is good, he thinks. Like, _really_ good. Awesomely bruce.

This is something that needs to be written down, needs to be remembered whatever might yet happen to his memory.

Rex furrows his brow. Any old piece of paper isn't going to cut it. Perhaps he needs to get a journal (_not a girly diary_) or something. You know, to write down all the important stuff; stuff he remembers, stuff he's informed of, and things he learns as he goes.

A thought occurs to him.

"Noah, I knew about my memory problem, right? That I could get amnesia at any time?" He questions abruptly.

The blond boy sets down the ball and stares at him. What he's looking for, neither is sure, but the boy nods regardless.

Rex frowns.

"Did I ever...I don't know, write stuff down? So that when this happened I'd..I'd _have_ something?"

By the musing scratching of his chin, it's clear nothing like a journal pops into Noah's mind immediately.

It's disappointing; Rex realizes he would've really liked to have a journal. A guide for how to live his life. The cliff notes to all the stories he would probably never remember. Someone truly trustworthy to inform him of how things are.

"I'm sorry, Rex. If you had something like that, you didn't tell me about it." Noah says.

Okay, scratch that – it's _really_ disappointing. A good idea, but apparently, his other self never had time for such a thing.

The amnesiac blows out a sigh and tries to put it out of his head.

Noah starts to get up off his bed, and chucks the empty pizza box into his trashcan, though it obviously doesn't fit.

Knowing best his friend completely forgot him weighs on his heart – although, the last few hours prove that Rex is nothing if not consistent, and all is not lost. Rex hasn't lost his personality, his arrogance or vulnerability, or his love for pineapple and anchovy pizza.

"Rex?" He calls, catching the thoughtful expression on the teen's face.

"Mmm." He responds in a tone far away from the room, far away from Noah, and the blond boy waits patiently for him to come back to earth. It doesn't take long.

"Can I borrow ten bucks?"

There is no hesitation in Noah's movements. He starts for his wallet out of habit, and almost in an afterthought (this is not _quite_ Rex, after all, and you never know), he says,  
"What for?"

"Mmm?"

"I said, what do you need ten dollars for?"

Rex gives him the look – the were-you-not-listening-to-me look. This is one that's used most often when they are doing EVO things.

"A journal, of course. I'm not going to let myself forget these things ever again. At least, not so easily."

Noah surrenders the wrinkled bill instantly. As he watches, Rex runs his gloved fingers over the wrinkles, trying to smooth it out a bit, and fails. The bill is damaged, he thinks abruptly, but still worth something. Very apt, Noah thinks.

Shrugging, the boy stuffs it into his back pocket.

He too, stands, and Noah realizes this is going to be goodbye.

"Thanks for letting me in." Rex grins. "And for the pizza."

Noah shrugs, letting the movement knock blond bangs into his eyes. It is nothing, after all – they've been friends for more than a day. This is a fact that matters, that does mean _something_, even if half of them can't recall their friendship. He's not going to let it be forgotten, or thrown away.

Ever.

"Eh, it's no problem. We do this all the time. Oh, and Rex?"  
The amnesiac is already at the window, hand on the frame and combat boot on the sill. He glances back at his name, curious.

The blond boy manages to banish the frown that's stayed with him most of the night and shoots his friend a true smile. This is something that needs to be said.

"I know you don't think so, but...you haven't changed. Not really."

An unknown expression crosses the teen's face; but Noah thinks he can figure out what it is. Not anger or grief, nor uncertainty or embarrassment.

"Thanks." Rex finally chokes out, and then Noah knows.

He smiles as the teen jumps out the window, crosses the yard and (with a bit more concentration than usual) creates his wings to fly.

It is relief on his friend's face. Noah can sense the feeling build in his chest, too.

* * *

A/N: First it's Rex's POV, then it switches to Noah's POV for a little bit. I'm sorry if this story doesn't make much sense. ^^  
I might add another chapter or two, cause these are really fun.

Also, Noah is awesome. Enough said. :D (And I know there was an episode with Noah doing like Pre-cal, or whatever, but you can ignore that, right? Right?)


	3. Confidence Building

A thousand deconstructed builds, crumbled parts to once cool weapons, are scattered around him.

The street is empty – he's at least thankful for _that_ – but he's afraid that if he continues the fight as he has, there won't be a street soon enough.

Rex...kinda sucks at not breaking crap. A glance around and he winces at the damage.

Okay, he kinda _really_ sucks at not breaking stuff. The Ninja is behind him, probably _letting_ his presence be known, and a frustration rises in Rex because he can tell that the guy is mad.

He _has_ to be, right? At the very least, annoyed. Or irritated. Or resigned to teaching this stupid kid how to do his own job, _again._

Rex is making a mess of things and it hasn't even been a week. This is probably why his builds aren't working, he thinks as another one, the giant sword he'd been trying to make, falls apart as though someone had ripped the duct tape off of it.

"Stupid nanites." He mutters, rolling out of the way of the EVO's large arm.

The Ninja wastes no time, the stoic expression never shifting for a single moment; he runs up the giant arm faster than the EVO can pull it from the cement, and raising his duel swords high, sticks them into a sensitive part of its neck.  
It roars in pain, and as The Ninja jumps, climbs, _gracefully_ flees it's back, he gives Rex The Look.

Time to do his thing.

Maybe it's his imagination, but Rex sees the look as you-had-better-get-this-right-Rex, unlike-everything-else-you've-been-doing-lately.

The boy grits his teeth and forces himself to think only of good things; pizza, basketball with Noah, the Doc, pranking that monkey...

He breathes. This is gonna work, this _has_ to work. He places both hands on the purple, mutated skin of the-once-person. And he concentrates on telling his nanites what he wants from them.

_Cure this guy._ He urges. _Undo what the other nanites did – tell them to go back to sleep._

It isn't long before he starts to feel it – a rising, heavy feeling, almost like he's lifting something, and his stomach starts to feel full and his mouth is dry, but he can feel it. It's working.

And it. Is. Amazing.

The ten story tall EVO shrinks to a man, early twenties, thankfully clothed (there are horror stories of naked cured men), who promptly collapses on the sidewalk.

Hands resting on knees, Rex looks up to see The Ninja sheathing his swords. A sudden lump is in his throat, and though he is breathing heavily he stops, for a moment. He waits, learning what it truly means to have 'baited breath'.

It is vital that he has this man's approval; this man's praise. Rex has no idea why.

He offers a strained grin, opting _not _to look at the damage around him, and tries to see behind the sunglasses.

"Not bad?" He asks, because he has nothing to compare it to.

Maybe it's the light, or the extra nanites in Rex's system, but the man's face seems to soften a little at his words.

"Not bad, Rex."

A thrill runs through him. In that moment, he thinks, he can build anything. Too bad the monster is already gone, and the man who was it is being herded into an ambulance with a blanket around him.

But maybe it is a trick of the light. Maybe The Ninja means it sarcastically. Maybe...

"I wrecked half the block." Rex says, glancing around.

The Ninja – Agent Six, Rex corrects himself – takes a look around too, and he subtly adjusts his sunglasses.

"You've done worse."

And there's no way Rex can mistake the smile on Agent Six's for anything else. He smiles back.

* * *

A/N: Sorry, I know it was a terrible fight scene, but it wasn't really supposed to be fighting - it was supposed to be Six and Rex. I think Six has a soft spot for Rex, but because he's so aloof, it's hard for the teen to see.

And I know I wrote all this happy stuff, about his friends accepting him, memory-less and all but know that there is sadness to come. Don't know how many chapters this will end up being.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Amnesia Again Again

There is nothing inside. There's a blank, dark, endless canvas begging to be filled with light and color and sound and touch and warmth – but he has nothing to paint, nothing to put.

He stands there, paintbrush poised, and paint drips because he lets it.

What is he missing? And where can he find it?

Suddenly the paintbrush drops from his grip and he's falling, falling down, down into the dark canvas... Wind flies past his ears and a soundless scream escapes his lips.

He wonders if this is what fear tastes like. Perhaps he could paint that.

Awareness drifts into him, or maybe him into it, as waves. First he feels a softness of material, scratchy and still underneath his limbs. He shifts, and he feels it – at the very least, it's warm, and it's loose against his raw, vibrating skin.

Next comes sound in the way of voices, loud, soft, worried and angry, and they all float around him. In and out. _They're important_, he thinks vaguely, and then loses the thought amongst the sea of the others.

He breathes in air deeply. It stretches his lungs and leaves a satisfied sensation in his chest – it motivates him to turn his head. Now his awareness extends, and he realizes he's been sleeping, that he's only just waking up. It's with this thought that he blinks open his eyes.

"Wha..." He croaks.

He's in a hospital. Well...it looks _kinda_ like a hospital. Actually, it looks more like the lab of some evil supervillian, or something, because while he does appear to be in a hospital bed with IV's sticking out of his arms and whatnot, he isn't resting in a patient's room. Rather, in the large room with the lab equipment, CAT machines, EEG machines, and doctors conferring over results not ten feet away, this is not just _any_ place of healing. There may even be soldiers in the corner.

He thinks he's dreaming for thirty seconds. Blinking blearily as the heart rate monitor increases, he tries to shush it – "Shush, stupid beeping machine." – and it catches the six people of so in white coats' attention. They stare in horror at him. Like he's done something horrible by blinking, or something.

And now he's starting to think he's seriously been kidnapped. Why anyone would _want_ to kidnap him, his sleep-addled mind has no answer for, but it's starting to feel like the truth. It scares him, it terrifies him, and he knows that were he more awake, he would probably already be running.

"Oh, you're finally awake!" One of the white-coats exclaims, striding over to him quite quickly (especially for heels?). This stranger advancing towards him is too much, is the last straw, and as he strains to sit up, he reaches for any words, any logic, anything in his brain to aid him.

The nothing comes back. It's emptiness is roaring at him and it threatens to devour his soul.

"I...I don't.. what is...where am I?" The words pile up, all struggling to be first, and yet that's the question that emerges on top.

_Why would a kidnapper just_ tell_ you where you are?_ He berates himself. _That's a stupid question._

The lady, her bun tight, her brow creased, comes to stop by his beside, and her white coat is still shifting. He can't take his eyes from it, as he feels it's a sign that all is not right. If not a kidnapper of sorts, then she's a doctor. Then something must be wrong with his health to have a team of doctors taking care of him.  
Neither scenario is preferable, and frankly, the former seems to make more sense right now.

"What...you're... it's okay, everything's fine - you're in the medbay." She says, like it's obvious, and what looks like concern increases on her face.

This must be some facade. A twisted attempt to appear innocent, perhaps. A ploy to get on his good side...?  
Theories flood his mind as though someone had released the gates of a dam, and they are as intense and numerous as his growing questions, his swarming emotions.

It's overwhelming. It is way, way too much at the moment.

But when he opens his mouth to somehow, someway, to _hope_ to relay just a _portion_ of this confusion to her (so she might give him the answers he sought), nothing like that comes out.

What comes out is;

"Rex."

He blinks in shock. The word is a lightening bolt to his chest, shocking and warm in a numbing way – and yet it feels so...so...right.

Where did it come from? Surely not the blank canvas that is his mind. What does it mean? Why is it so familiar?

"Rex. I'm Rex." He says slowly. He's testing it out, and he decides it's his name. Right? Wouldn't that make sense?

It's hard to make the connection, but soon he realizes that he should know his name – if nothing else, by the surprised, somewhat horror stricken expression dissolving her once smiling face. Normal people are aware of their own names. They don't have to guess at these things.

There's a small attempt to brush it off in his mind. Of course he knows his own name. _Of course_.

It has always been there, waiting in the darkness, and sleep had obscured it from view. Momentarily.

That, or, an illness – he does seem to be in a medical facility – has bogged down his brain. Yes, that is a very attractive option.

Anything but the truth rising in his chest. He prefers the truth he is carving out for himself.

Yet the tools lie in his hands, wood shavings on the floor, and he can't quite convince himself the puppet is a real boy.

"I guess I should've known that." He frowns. "Do I...know you?"

A intriguing, startling, crumbling effect, starting with her eyes, crosses the woman's face. It ends with such crushing disappointment filling her frame that she actually stumbles back a step.

Her reaction is sharp, and it has more depth than it ought to. She is stunned. Upset. Emotional.

A thirst to know _why_ halts his movements to leave the bed and exit the room. Truthfully, his legs feel shaky and he isn't sure they would even support him.

"I'm sorry, I guess I'm just kinda confused." He gives a half-hearted chuckle, smiling to cover up the terror and befuddlement inside. "I'm Rex.." _Apparently_. "Mind explaining to me what's going on?"

There are many things flying over the woman's wide, glittering green eyes, chief amongst them pain, and yet within a moment she has sucked them inside. It doesn't seem to be on purpose.

Her face is a pretty, crisp mask with nothing showing, the only difference a slowness in her words.

"I...Rex. Right. You're Rex."

As many things are bothering him – like the needles embedded in his arm, pumping who knows what into his system, the other lab coats whispering conspiratorially not far off, the fact that he might be crazy, hurt, or possibly a lab rat being experimented on – her reaction remains second or third on the list. It worries him.

"So...I'm in the hospital. No – wait. A medbay, you said I'm in some sort of sickbay."

"Rex." She repeats, and this time he can see something leaking through her hastily constructed shield, because while strong, it isn't meant to be permanent. "Rex, this is Providence, and you...there was an accident. Don't you remember?"  
Now, no matter the fear echoing in her eyes, she is scaring _him_.

The tenuous truce he's fixed with his emotions is shifting nervously. All of this is so new and wrong and right, somehow, disorienting and baffling, and-and he just learned his _name_. There is no justification in the world for her to speak like this, as though she knows him, when he was two seconds from bolting two _minutes_ ago.

"What do you mean? What's 'providence'? I-I don't, you're not making sense." He shakes his head, moving to rest his feet on the floor for whatever safety it can give him.

It barely helps at all.

"What am I doing here?" This time it comes out as a demand; it's intriguing to watch as his fear and anger mixes, giving him unexpected strength.

Strength enough to stand on trembling legs, strength enough to glare at the pretty, conflicted woman in front of him (and he doesn't think he's the type to normally be cruel to the ladies), and more than enough energy to semi-carefully remove his IV's.

"Rex, what are you doing?" She moves forward to stop him. There's a panicked expression flitting through the mask – s_hock_, he finally realizes the name for the mask – and it's like she's just realized that she's not in control of the situation.

Good.

The feeling of helplessness and defenselessness has been eating him alive. Let's see how she enjoys it.

Tenderly, mindful of his unsteady balance, he drops the ends of the IV's on the bed and makes his way to the center of the room, ignoring the drops of blood dripping down his arms. He sees a big door, no door nob (a worrying prospect), a few yards somewhat behind him. There's a couple other doors, but this one is in the center, it's big, and he thinks that's _gotta_ be the main exit.

Wait. Medbay, right? So this building...is for something else?

"Rex, you're still not completely healed. I need you to come back, please, you're not thinking clearly –"

He takes a step towards the door, his eyes never leaving hers. When she sees, her words cut off.

Would she stop him if he tried to run for it? It isn't clear if she is a kidnapper or not, but at the moment it matters less than it ought to.

She is all stinging and cutting emotion in his ribcage, a disease of turmoil on his already chaotic mind.

Then there's this awful second where she gives an agonizing little sob, and though it's one that's quickly swallowed back and not followed by any others, it's too late. He's heard it; it just about killed him.

"Rex." She whispers. "It's me. Holiday. Tell me you know who I am."

He wishes he could please her, or do anything to ease the sorrow in her eyes. But he can't. He doesn't think he can lie, or say much of anything at all with the baseball sized lump in his throat. It chokes his words and restricts his breathing.

He wonders if this is pity, or something deeper. It's impossible to know.

Finally, her hopeful gaze tears into his soul, squirms under his skin, and disturbs him into answering. He shakes his head mutely. He then leaves it turned, a little, so he doesn't have to meet that horrible gaze again.

"Rex..."

He squeezes his eyes closed and wills himself not to cry. If that happens, he won't hesitate to bolt – and they can't stop him. Probably. Maybe not.

"I-I don't know you. I don't know where I am. I just woke up and I'd _really_ like to know what's going on, okay? I'm sorry; I really don't know you."

She's struggling with tears too, he can hear it in her tone.

"Rex...o-okay. Just, um, sit back down. I can run some tests, and consult my charts, here, a-a-and we can fix this. I'll take care of you."

But this is the wrong thing to say, and the wrong voice to say it in, for he cannot _stand_ that achingly familiar, yet so _strange_ motherly tone. It burns him from the inside. It feels like a disease hiding, smirking, behind the blackness of his mind. He suspects that rather than blank, it is _black_ – dark, and not empty, it's brimming with the darkness.

"I can't...I don't...I don't understand..."

"Rex.." She's advancing towards him now. She's caught the eye of the soldiers he'd glimpsed earlier, the ones in the corner, and they start to near him as well. He can't take the increased, tight sensation of helplessness and hopelessness as it clogs up his windpipe.

"No, just-just leave me alone!" They are closing in on him now, and it feels like someone is lowering the lid to a casket. Sealing his grave. It's too much, of _course_ it's overwhelming, and it's impossible to deal with unbearable torture.

He has two paths, now.

So, faced with the most primal of choices and burdened with a sense of morality – though that is tucked way behind the fear, it still manages to have some say in the matter – he declines fight.

He flees instead.

Bare feet ache as they slap the floor, lungs feel squeezed, or bruised, as they struggle to give him the oxygen he desires as he runs. And as his arms pump and his vision tunnels to the door, and then the hallway after the door, and the hallway after that, he doesn't think about that canvas anymore.

He thinks nothing – he's no longer musing on nothing. It's a difference that's freeing, even in his terror.

So upset and befuddled is he that he doesn't notice the flash of green until it's too late.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the confusion. This takes place before chapters 1-3. I'm gonna be jumping around a bit time-wise, so try not to get confused.

Thanks for reading!


	5. Of Itches and Shock

**_Reviews!_ **Yay! Reviews make my day, guys! Thank you so much to **fanaticagenrex**, **YellowAngela**, and **Spektor vox **for the feedback!

Happy new year all of you!

Also, this is supposed to be set riight before chapter one. Slowly, I'm going to fill in all the pieces about how he re-lost his memories. Hopefully.

* * *

There has been nothing but numbness since he awoke and it's starting to itch.

They say his name is Rex. He knows this. They explain he works for someplace called 'Providence'. He accepts it as fact. Some doctor, agent, and an 'Evo', they collectively tell him that they've known him for years. He nods.

And when they tell him the nothingness that's been eating him alive as long as he can recall (that's not very long) is amnesia, he believes them.

But (from what he can tell) his willpower has always been strong, and not even this, this numbness can stifle it for very long. Soon, the inaction about his situation begins to take it's toll. The need to fight back, to regain some semblance of control squirms uncomfortably in his stomach – he would really like to rebel.

It takes a while, some searching, and perhaps a few words from the doctor, but Rex suspects that in a really convoluted way, this is something normal – something called shock.

It is perhaps a mental comfort blanket. A coping mechanism to his mind in an attempt to deal with too many rapid changes.

He often wonders, blinking tiredly, if it is working.

"You think I'm in shock." He doesn't feel anything but distant recognition the second she mentions it; the word fits, somehow, in his gut. It's like it goes perfectly into an empty slot he'd had inside all along.

"You were so much more...emotional, earlier. When you woke up... Rex, it's okay to be angry, or sad. I will understand if you hate me even. I just-just need you to talk to me. Tell me how you're really doing."

"Told you, I'm fine." He replies, a vague sense of annoyance at the Doc's pressuring. Can't she see he's not lying to make her feel better – he isn't lying at all!

Yet even the far off irritation is much too tiring, so he soon drops it in favor of conserving energy.

"I really don't feel...anything."

"And that doesn't strike you as odd?" She presses, an uncomfortably intense glint to her eyes. Green, lovely eyes, much too perceptive and way too worried. He thinks he could get lost in her expectations alone – the way she expects him to feel and bleed and scream and cry over this.

He doesn't know how to do any of those things, though. 'Apparently' he's forgotten. So instead he blinks at her over her doctor's chart, tightens his gloved fists on the patients' table, and shrugs.

The numbness has settled over his emotions like ice, crackling and strengthening with time, and now he didn't know how or _if_ he should break it.

If he can't feel, he can't hurt, right? Maybe he can't recall very much, but that pain, the pain from The Before, is the one thing he can never clear from his memories. An certain injury he'd received in the field, as he understands it. That much he had gathered from Doctor Holiday. Everything other than that about The Event she has stayed mysteriously vague about, especially since she was so willing to share anything else she knew about him.

"So, you're not in shock." The doc says finally, disbelief scribbled all over her open face. He'd once entertained the thought that reading faces was his art, and he was a wonderful painter – but he's since learned that it isn't him, it's her. It's her _with_ him – everything to do with him has her heart pitifully dangling from her sleeve, her feelings so bright they reflect in his eyes and hurt him.

Yes, even with his numbness.

In other situations, or should he say just the one he'd seen so far, she can be strong and stoic, chin held high and mouth set firmly, and it's really, really cool.

Too bad it never lasts as long as his eyes are on her, watching, silently, daring her to add another expectation onto the list.

"Yep." He pops the 'p', and wonders if smiling is supposed to be this hard, this stiff. She doesn't smile back. Then again, he can hardly call it more than a grimace to begin with.

"Then you are completely fine waking up to strangers, not a memory in your head."

He swallows, his eyes unfocused on the nothing in front of him.

"Mm-hmm."

"And the fact that the whole world has nanites, machines which could turn anyone into a monster - you're utterly apathetic about that, as well?"

"...Yeah."

"Rex."

The name is a spear into his ribcage, startling his heart into overdrive and he jumps, still on the table. It's so intimate, it almost sounds wrong on her lips. Almost. Maybe he's just afraid to admit that it sounds so familiar, so...right.

"What?" He snaps, and it's meaner than he wanted it to be. Yet she almost looks relieved at the emotion, despite the glint of tears it brings.

"I know you don't really mean that...but if you want to pretend that you don't care, that's your business."

It is his business – and she has no part in it, the stranger!

"I was just..." She took a deep breath. "We were going to go over some things today, remember? What I talked to you about yesterday? I need to ask some questions, to try and jog your memory?"

Things are getting real again; uneasy and hot and messy. Something inside beings to drip, starts to melt.

That makes it all the worse when she places a hand on his arm – not confining, never restraining, very, very slightly so he could shrug it off if he wanted – and she gazes at him with what looks like understanding in her eyes. It pierces him, knocks out his breath. He nearly misses her next words,

"I thought that Bobo and Six could help with this next part. Maybe if they told some stories, it might jog a memory...a-and Noah's offered to help, too! I..I-I know you _do_ want to remember, Rex."

Finally, he shrugs off the contact, aware of how close she is to nailing his heart with her eyes so like a surgeon's knife; making strong, certain incisions into everything that he is. Yet she hits him hard anyway, even taking a step backwards out of his space.

"You always have."

And that's how she leaves him – with the numbness shattering into awful exposure, his emotions fully pouring into his center and making some horrible, nauseous, turbulent soup in his stomach.

It's a desperate attempt to swallow it down, to try and contain it. He's certain it doesn't work. Slowly, ignoring that fact, he walks to join her in the other room.

He thinks he can contain the storm swirling within throughout a few questions. Right?

...Right?

* * *

**A/N**: So, to clarify, in chronological order, the chapters so far go - **Chapter 4**, then next (a not-written-yet chapter), **Chapter 5**, **Chapter 1**, then **2**, and then...**three**. Ish.

Hope that's not too confusing. It's supposed to be so you can understand it even out-of-order - and anyway, chapter one was written first.

Thank you so much for reading! Please review!

YellowAngela: Thank you, that means a lot! I wasn't sure if I got the characters right (Rex is a little angsty) but I figured it's my fic and it's okay. Hope you keep reading!

fanaticagenrex: Thank you for reviewing! I don't actually speak Spanish, but google translate does. Sort of. Feedback is awesome in any language! Please keep reading!

Spektor vox: Awesome! I love exceeding expectations. I hope I don't let you down with this story ^^; Please keep reading!


	6. A Bad Boss

"Rex." The word is said with such disdain it's nearly an insult, and it's clear if there was anything _else_ – anything _much _less friendly and informal – he would be called that.

He blinks back, an infuriatingly calm smirk at the ready – though he doesn't really know why – and knows he's supposed to shut up and listen.

"Dude. You need to get a tan!" He blurts out suddenly. Everyone reacts to his little comment like it's a huge offense:

The Scientist/Doctor glances worriedly from the screen to him, White Knight's (or Light's or something equally silly) scowl deepens further and his white knuckles turn paler. And Agent Seven? Or maybe it's Five, he doesn't know, but the ninja can be seen subtly adjusting his glasses and Rex thinks that perhaps – just perhaps – he's rolling his eyes.

"What?" He asks self-consciously. Doctor Holiday nails him with a glare and his smiles sheepishly in response – honestly, he can't _remember _how to control his mouth. It's doubtful he ever could.

With what seems to be an attempt to salvage dignity, the man behind the screen ignores his comment. But Rex knows he heard it – he can see the frown deepening into something _way_ past a scowl.

"I've been informed of your...condition." The hesitation isn't pity or kindness or sensitivity to Rex's predicament (And it's definitely a predicament – come on, amnesia twice? _Twice_?) but rather – as with Rex's name – White Knight has no other way to phrase it.

His smirk dims, though it doesn't completely die.

"And though I'm sure you must be learning your way around...again...Six tells me your skills aren't _completely _lost." Distantly, he cements the number 'six' into his mind.

The words though, they bring a lump to his throat because it's so radically different from the treatment he's been getting before; 'they' want him for someone he's not, but this guy doesn't want _him _at all.

White Knight just wants what he can do. His nanites. His cure.

"I guess so." He responses, when it appears as though the man is awaiting a cue of some kind.

There's no brisk 'good', or even much more than a small nod, really, and suddenly a picture is being shoved into his face. It looks like some sort of praying mantis-man...thingy.

"Then you can take care of this; it's a particularly large EVO wrecking havoc in Natal, Brazil. It's not doing much right now, but just standing around it's knocked over twelve buildings so far. We suspect that it is a citizen named Victor Melo, who lives nearby.

"Should be simple enough for even _you_ to handle – cure him and report back to me."

Knight's eyes, cold, hard, and narrowed beyond what Rex thinks is humanly possible, locks onto the Agent standing beside him.

"Six."

The man gives a nod back, the same one – brief and tiny and without emotion. The two men provide a startling contrast, because the ninja actually seems to _care_ about him...however slightly.

Rex has no such illusions about White Knight. He watches them communicate in a single, stony look, and tries to translate it in his head. It goes something like,

_Watch him_.

_Of course_.

_And make sure he doesn't do anything stupid and mess this up_.

_Always do_.

Then without so much as a 'Ta ta for now!', the cheery adult shuts of his cam and leaves the trio alone.

"Fun guy." He remarks sarcastically. He chances a side glance to his 'partner', then meets Doctor Holiday's eyes on his other side.

"Providence sure seems to have a lot of those."

Despite all the trouble he's caused her, the small joke makes her smile. It's tired, but it's real.

"Yes, we do, Rex."

"So he's the guy that runs Providence..." He mutters to himself. "Huh. Expected someone..."

There's a pause he lets hang.

"What?" Doctor Holiday asks, almost as though she can't help it.

He attempts a grin.  
"Someone darker."

Although she face-palms, then adjusts her face-palm into something slightly more adult, like rubbing her temples, he thinks he can spot happiness creeping up the corners of her mouth.

For some reason, he suspects that she would look beyond beautiful happy.

He shakes the odd thought from his brain and stuffs his gloved hands into his pockets, kicking an imaginary rock.

"Ya know, when you said he very business-like, Doctor Holiday, I didn't know you meant like _that_..."

"Come on, Rex." The Agent speaks up abruptly, his lips not quite hardened into his usual frown. "We need to get going."

Suddenly his stomach lurches.

"Yeah... um, are you sure about this?" He addresses the man in green, because he hadn't been able to _consider_ asking Mr. Grumpy-Pants.

Mr. Six eyes him carefully – well, he _assumes_ so since he can't see the man's eyes – and moves forward with an actual emotion on his face.

Curiosity.

"What do you mean, Rex?" There's no other way for the man to be, it seems, other than blunt.

"I mean, are you sure you want me out there, doing this, when I can't...when I'm a liability?" He attempts a sort of finesse about this – he doesn't suppose it takes.

He manages a weak laugh.

"I don't know if I can remember how to...cure them, I mean – what if I mess up? What if I can't do it?"

"Rex."

He wrenches his gaze from the wall, the ceiling, his boots, to Doctor Holiday's green eyes. They almost match Six's suit, he notes idly. The color is so deep, so memorable. Ironic, really.

"You went over this with Six, Rex. He said training this morning went fine, and we agreed it would be good for you to be in a familiar environment, so I don't see what –"

"Well, yeah! Of _course_ it went fine!" He interrupts. Loudly. "I didn't have to 'cure' anybody!"

Agent Six shifts uncomfortably.

Never before has he observed the graceful, stealthy, adept adult look so awkward (though he hasn't actually known him long). It's the feeling thing, he realizes, humiliation coloring his cheeks. It's his emotions running rampant. _Agent Six_ would never be so scared, so cowardly...

"I mean, it's fine. Nevermind. It's fine, I can do it." He mumbles, scuffing a boot on the cold, concrete floor.

Out of the corner of his vision, he sees the two exchange a glance – a glare from Holiday, and something like a helpless shrug from Agent Six – and he berates himself for making a scene with his fears.

"Are you sure, Rex?" She queries with this horribly _motherly_ look on her face. It feels like a good-bad thing, that she doesn't wear those dark, impenetrable shades too – and it annoys him.

"Fine, fine.." He mumbles. Then he brushes past her so as not to listen to it anymore.

Agent Six follows behind in the manner he always does – silently and stoically.

But for a second, as they board the helicopter/plane and he glances back at him, he thinks the man wants to say something.

"Rex..."

But Agent Six turns his head away with the softest, most painful sigh he's ever been witness to (yes, he knows that it's not very many). Then the other Providence soldiers move in and go in the cockpit with them, and he knows that nothing will be said.

It's a shame though – Rex really needed to hear something.

* * *

A/N: School's back, and I have less time than ever to write, but here y'all go. Rex re-meets Mr. Grumpy-Pants - a.k.a White Knight.

I actually like White Knight, but I guess this is before he gets his character development. Really, I just wanted someone to be mean to Rex. ^^

Also, amnesia!Rex is still getting used to this world. So... that makes this set sometime before chapter 3. Yeah. Maybe a little after chapter 1?

Thanks for reading!

Sparky: Thank you for all the reviews! They were so lovely to read. ^^

Verdantia: Thanks! I hope you keep reading! :D

fanaticagenrex: Gracias! Please keep reading!


	7. 2 AM

A/N: I know it's been a while since I last updated, sorry. This little drabble/chapter came from the prompt 2 AM, and practically wrote itself. Apologies for any grammar/spelling mistakes - I don't have a beta.

Thanks bunches to everyone who reviewed! :D

* * *

The infuriating, unwaveringly neon green numbers glare through the darkness at him. As he stumbles from his bed, one hand grips the dagger always kept on his person – just in case. It's dark but he trips over nothing, as his room is spartan and only messy when Rex comes in.

He doesn't let Rex in often.

He finds his shoes where he left them at the foot of the bed. It's too early and his vision is too blurry to bother with a tie, but he manages to tuck his white, button-down shirt into his dark pants.

Three point five seconds are spent contemplating his vivid green jacket. They feel longer than that – too long – and it's with that thought he decides it would only slow him down.

He's wasted enough time – a glance at the horrid clock reveals _two whole minutes_ have passed since his phone went off – and he sweeps his katanas and glasses off the nightstand in one motion.

Then he's flying out of his quarters, squinting briefly at the bright light in the hall (fortunately, the sunglasses help) and running down the hallway.

It feels like flying. His breaths are smooth and slow, timed evenly with his footfalls. Everything about him seems too collected, too calm for such an early alarm.

He isn't so old to think of two am as _unspeakably early –_ it's just that he rises at five o'clock. Sharp.

And when one spends the day training and working with a sixteen year-old EVO boy, one needs as much sleep as possible.

With his swords controlled by his sides, he runs past hall after hall, noting their sameness. All white and grey, all metal and concrete. It isn't like he can argue with Providence's lack of creativity, though – as Rex is fond to point out, he _does _wear the same suit everyday.

But he enjoys his routines. He appreciates having control, having something unchanged. In his world, where people could mutate at any moment and EVO's run rampant, and nanites continue to surprise him, he _needs_ something unchanged.

He needs a constant.

Too bad that, too, has changed.

The phone that woke him up weighs heavily in his shirt pocket, thumping against his chest as he runs. Something whispers to him that he ought to be more panicked, more frazzled about this situation.

Six doesn't do frazzled, though. He tucks his feelings behind thick dark glass and looks out at the world through it, feeling safe knowing that they can't peer back in. It's the way he is – the way he was taught to be.

All he knows for sure is that two am is too early to be armed for a fight. He doesn't let his thoughts wander from that statement, or from keeping his pace even and his swords tight in his grasp.

It's difficult, though, when he barges into the briefing room. Holiday is there – and she's watching him.

She looks on as he slows his pace, not even breathing heavy, and stops calmly in front of the screen White Knight is on.

He pretends he is in his full suit and his doctor's lips aren't pressed into a hard, thin line. He pretends things are normal.

It's almost easy to imagine Rex, standing there, just in the corner of his eye...it's a close thing, but he stops himself from turning his head to look.

Foolishness. He has always been such a foolish man.

His former partner and friend gives him a glare that's both softer and harder than it normally is.

"Six. Get to the Keep. _Now_." He rumbles in that gravelly tone.

There's no need for a reply.

By the furious expression on the doctor's face, it's clear she wasn't invited to this particular party. To his own surprise, he tries to send a sympathetic glance at her before starting for the door. But he forgets – he's wearing glasses and she can't see it.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

As he flees to the Keep, the giant ship that they take to fight the really bad guys (a bad sign in itself), he doesn't look back. He knows she'll be waiting for him on the ship – after all, she's better at navigating the endless levels of Providence than he is.

It feels like it's years before he sets eyes on the ship. How can it have taken so long to get here when he was running at full speed? He wonders as he cranes his neck to stare at the thing.

And yet, sure enough, as he predicted there's the sound of high-heeled boots scurrying up the ramp way and he catches a glimpse of a swishing white coat. She has already made it inside; now it's his turn.

He tries not to glare at Callan when he boards the ship and the man gives him a few consoling words. He tries not to snap at the Providence men that join him on the ship ever so slowly. He attempts to still his tapping fingers – the only outward sign of his irritation – as he waits, but he can't.

Frustration builds inside as the pilot painstakingly prepares for takeoff. Why are they so _slow_? A glance down at his watch shows that he only took four minutes for himself, too much time to begin with, and how many more are _they _going to take?

This is the panic, he realizes with despair. This is the fear and the terror manifesting as anger.

_Breathe, Six._ In one deep, slow breath through the nose. Hold. Then out through the mouth.

He repeats the action a few more times and herds his fear and fury behind that thick, bulletproof glass in his mind.

It's difficult to tell if it worked or not.

Finally, _finally_, the ship beneath his feet rumbles and leaves the earth. It rises quickly, despite it's size, and flies fast enough to unbalance even the most trained individual.

Six doesn't shift at all.

Soft, petite hands tug on his tense arms – he hadn't noticed her approach, and struggles not to reach for his swords – and they keep tugging. So he relaxes his muscles eventually, and uncrosses his arms.

Something close to comfort and warmth breaks through his being and into his heart, as Holiday's arm hooks in his and she rests her head on his shoulder. This type of thing she doesn't do often, and she doesn't do it because _she's _afraid – though, in this case, she probably is.

Holiday stays with him because _he's _scared.

"It's going to be okay, Six." She murmurs, her voice deep with emotion. "He's going to be alright."

He doesn't mutter back, _but I should have been there, _and yet he could've sworn she hears the words anyway, shimmering in the air between them.

That's one of the many things he..._appreciates_ about Doctor Holiday – her ability to sense everything he doesn't speak aloud. And...he keeps a _lot _of what he wants to say inside.

"I'm sure the kid's fine." He replies after a long silence, when he's sure no pain or concern will leak through his voice. "He...always is."

But Six knows his statement won't comfort either of them. Not like Holiday's physical contact. Not like seeing _him_ with their own eyes will.

That's not who Agent Six is; he's never been a comforting person. He's just not a warm guy.

As though she could sense his darkening thoughts, Holiday's grip increases. He wonders why she cares about him in the way that she does. Why..._how _could you love someone as closed off as he?

That's the exact moment the ship lands. Suddenly all thoughts of warmth, cold, time, comfort – all of it flees faster than his earlier run.

Suddenly he's rushing down the lowering ramp with Holiday by his side, and suddenly there's only one thing left in his head.

Rex. Rex. Rex.

How could they know it was much too late?

* * *

A/N: Yeah, this one's from Six's POV. Sorry if that was confusing at first. **(This chapter comes first out of the seven, canonically.)**

SirenSounds97: Aw, thanks! I admit, I love amnesia stories - it was one of the reasons I started watching Generator Rex - so writing an amnesia!fic in a universe where it's practically canon was irresistible. Please keep reading!

Sparky: *Hands out virtual cookies* Your reviews always make me smile! :) Thanks a million!

fanaticagenrex: Thank you!

Oodles of gratitude to everyone else who read! See you next time ^^


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